


Therein Lies the Denouement

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, come right this way, if you trust me and want to take a chance, please mind the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:   She should be strong like her mother, fearless like her father. She’s Josephine Dearden Queen, and she <i>will</i> be okay, even if it’s by sheer force of will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to Jomarchfwf for the betaing, and to every single one of you lovely tumblr friends who commented or liked the early draft of chapter one. It encouraged me to continue this strange journey. :)
> 
> AGAIN: Please heed the warnings.

Something about the way Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig are looking at her when they think she’s not paying attention tips Joey off. It’s not the normal concern for a sixteen-year-old girl (which makes sense, since Joey is self-aware enough to know she’s not a typical sixteen year old). It’s more like they’re anticipating something -- or, no, not just anticipating, that’s too... _tame_. More like _dreading_.

It sets Joey’s nerves on edge.

Given the pinched set of Uncle Dig’s lips and the way Aunt Lyla is cleaning things with a little more gusto than is really necessary -- well, Joey knows whatever it is, it’s nothing good.

Considering the awful turn Joey’s life took five years ago, she should probably not feel so blindsided by the possibility of _more_ bad shit happening. But the realization that _something_ might be about to overturn this semi-settled life she has -- it un-balances her, strips away all the progress she’s made the last few years, breaks down her careful self control until she can feel the storm of words, a whole jumble of thoughts yearning to tumble out. But she manages to hold back.

It’s hard, _really_ hard, because Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig and Sara and Jonah are family, yes, but they’re not the family she needs. But her parents are gone, and they’re never coming back.

At sixteen, Joey no longer allows herself the luxury of mourning her parents every single day the way she did when she lost them. Instead, she tries very hard to keep all of the loneliness and grief and self-doubt trapped in a little box, hidden away behind her ribcage. She loves her adoptive family, and Aunt Thea and Gigi (her grandmother simply refuses to be called _bubbe_ or _gram_ or anything so stodgy), and her friends -- everyone who cares about her. When she was an inconsolable eleven-year-old orphan, they’d wanted so badly to make her feel better, and, well, she has always hated disappointing her family. She can’t stand being the reason they all looked so sad, because, sure, she lost her parents and had to move from the only home she’s ever known, but it’s not like she’s being raised by wolves, or by shitty people. She is loved. She knows that for absolute sure. So even if there’s a hole in her heart where her parents should be, Joey decided long ago that she should be stronger than that broken little girl who just wanted to lie in a ball and cry. She should be strong like her mother, fearless like her father. 

She’s Josephine Dearden Queen, and she _will_ be okay, even if it’s by sheer force of will.

Of course, sometime around her twelfth birthday -- and her first birthday party without her parents -- Joey’d realized that _deciding_ to be okay didn’t actually _make_ her okay. It had sent Joey into a bit of a tailspin, but then she’d given herself a brisk talking to, trying her hardest to recall the exact tone in her mother’s voice every time _she’d_ been there to pick Joey back up, brush her off, and set her back on her feet. “You’re a Smoak and a Queen,” Joey’d muttered into her pillow, scrunching her eyes shut and trying to picture her mother’s kind eyes, “and that combination is unstoppable.”

By thirteen, she’d learned to be a convincing actress. She’s pretty sure she has them all convinced that she’s way stronger than she really is, that she’s healed from her parents’ deaths. Or at least _mostly_ healed -- becoming an orphan at eleven isn’t really something most people expect you to just _get over_. 

Still, the last thing she wants to do now (or ever) is to show weakness. She doesn’t want to worry Aunt Thea or Gigi. She definitely doesn’t want to add more stress to whatever is bothering Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig. 

So she pushes the ache down and starts collecting clues, trying to piece together what’s going on. She watches Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla, studying them for more strange behavior. It’s not like they don’t already have their fair share of secrets (secrets that Joey is convinced have more to do with the gaping hole in her life than they’re willing to admit), but they’re somehow exceeding their normal levels of compulsive secret-keeping and stilted, unpersuasive excuses.

Still it takes Joey a couple days to convince herself she’s right. In her defense, she has her art lessons, and a calc test, and two study sessions with Les, who is just _so awful_ at languages and needs every ounce of help she can give him if he wants to pass Spanish. Plus Sara dragged her to the stores _twice_ to look at prom dresses. Basically, Joey’s a little distracted by all of this other _stuff_ , and her brain doesn’t put it all together until she has a breather.

Three days into the new weirdness, Joey is sitting in her small bedroom, staring absently at her charcoal drawing of a deserted alley, when she finally _recognizes_ the weirdness from Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig. They haven’t been this... _hinky_ since right after her parents were killed.

Joey’d been an alternately zoned out and grieving eleven year old, but she remembers this strange nervous energy from Aunt Lyla, and the hard, determined set of Uncle Dig’s jaw. She remembers how they’d been when they were stubbornly looking for her parents, explosion be damned. She remembers Uncle Dig’s angry, “I’m not presuming _anything_ , least of all that my friends -- that our goddaughter’s _parents_ \-- are dead, Lyla!” 

She remembers the devastating quietness that lasted days and days once Uncle Dig had finally given up, once he finally admitted that if Aunt Lyla, of everyone, couldn’t use her connections to find _anything_ , then maybe... 

Maybe Oliver and Felicity Queen really were dead.

Joey’s throat tightens with the memory and she shakes it off, taking a few deep breaths and focusing on her drawing. It’s moody and dark, with a small spot of light in the corner. 

Joey’s pretty sure they’d thought she hadn’t realized what was going on. They _definitely_ hadn’t known she’d overheard that conversation, but she’d already figured it out by that point. She’s always been smart -- her mom used to call her precocious, and her dad would just grin and shake his head and tell her mom, “She’s your kid, Felicity.” 

Remembering all of that, she narrowly resists the urge to curl up in a ball and just… exist for a little bit. Because now that she recognizes this behavior, that tiny, unrelenting, _childish_ belief flares up -- that hope that maybe, somehow, _maybe_ her parents are alive. That idiotic hope that she has _never_ been able to extinguish, because she is a logical girl, but needing her parents isn’t logical, it’s _instinctual_. Joey knows Uncle Dig never really believed they died in the explosion either -- if he had, he wouldn’t have been so unrelenting for nearly a year and a half trying to find them.

So maybe this means… maybe he’s finally found _something_.

Joey doesn’t know how to process that, how to confront it, because for all of her maturity and stoicism, some parts of her will maybe always be that little eleven year old who wants to curl up in a ball and cry until she gets what she wants. Until her parents come home. 

Joey drifts through the rest of her afternoon, probably screwing up her conjugation exercises, even though she has her father’s facility with languages. She sits through dinner, and she tries to smile when she’s supposed to. No matter how adorable little Jonah is being, she can’t laugh at his dumb boy jokes.

So she waits until Jonah’s in bed, waits for Sara to slip away to her room to call Marcus, waits until it’s just Aunt Lyla rinsing dishes in the sink. For whatever reason, the kitchen has always been where Joey and her adoptive family have had heavy conversations. 

She remembers Aunt Thea tugging her into her lap, rocking her as Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig explained that Joey was going to live with them now. 

She remembers Gigi holding her hand and asking her if she was up for a bat mitzvah, while Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla watched silently. 

She remembers Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig explaining that the courts had finalized the legalities, and that Joey was a very young billionaire; she remembers crying that time, breaking, telling them she didn’t want the money, she wanted her parents. She remembers Uncle Dig’s devastated expression when she begged them for her parents. She remembers Aunt Lyla’s quick, strong embrace, and the way she’d tucked Joey’s head safely under her chin and rocked her, murmuring, “Joey, you know we’d give anything for them to be back here with you, too. I’m sorry this upset you, but we promised you we’d tell you the important things, right?” 

Of the two of them, Aunt Lyla has always been the most blunt, the least likely to lie or refuse to talk about things, so Joey decides to talk to her. Joey takes a couple hesitant steps into the kitchen, stopping short when she realizes Uncle Dig is actually there, too. He’s on the phone with someone, leaning against the countertop near the back door. He looks at her, mutters something she can’t quite hear, and ends the call.

“Josephine,” he greets, because he’s the only one who calls her by her full name now that her mom is gone. Joey both loves and hates it. “You need something?”

She nods and steps over to the island, leaning back against it, her hands grasping the cool granite tightly for strength. 

Aunt Lyla turns off the faucet, drying her hands and turning to face Joey. “Are you all right?”

Joey ignores the question, because there’s really no good answer. “Is--” She clears her throat, tries to remember the steel that was always in her father’s spine, the strength in her mother’s voice. “Is something going on?”

Uncle Dig freezes, just long enough for Joey to notice it. Then he smiles at her, his hand landing on her shoulder as he leans in to kiss her temple. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

That’s not really an answer, and he stopped with the forehead kisses a couple years ago. She’s not sure what to make of it, because it feels like he’s reassuring himself as much as her.

Aunt Lyla steps forward, no-nonsense as always. “There’s nothing wrong, Joey. You know we would tell you if there were.”

Joey considers this. They’ve had several talks in this very room about truth and honor and honesty in the nearly five years Joey’s lived with them. And Aunt Lyla’s right, but-- “You also said there might be some things you can’t tell me,” Joey answers slowly. “Is-- Is this one of those things?”

The quick look Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig exchange is confirmation enough.

Joey curls into herself a little. “Are you looking into--” She hugs herself a little tighter-- “into my parents’ deaths again?”

Uncle Dig looks away, jaw tight. He’s always been the more reflexively protective of his kids, Joey included. She’s figured out that he feels responsible, somehow, for her parents. She knows he was her dad’s bodyguard a million years ago, but she also suspects there’s a lot more to it. But whatever the cause, she knows she’s much more likely to get a straight answer from Aunt Lyla, so she focuses on kind, loving, _straightforward_ Aunt Lyla. Who steps forward, meeting Joey’s gaze head on.

“We may have uncovered some new information related to your parents,” she explains, “but we really don’t know much yet -- definitely not enough to share. I promise you, Joey, when we know more, Johnny and I will explain everything, okay?”

A flare of anger hits her, because she’s not a child. She’s not the little girl Uncle Dig held for hours after the funeral. She’s not a kid who doesn’t _understand_ stuff. “You’ll explain everything?” she asks, her tone bitter and sarcastic in a way she rarely allows herself. Because at the end of the day, Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla took her in, and some tiny, scared part of her has always worried that one day, if she acts up, they’ll realize they have their own kids to worry about and… well… Joey has tried her best to be the model girl, the model young woman, because maybe if she does _everything_ right, she won’t lose anyone else.

But tonight, the loss of her parents is bubbling and churning in her gut, and she’s scared, and her patience deserts her. So she snaps, “Does that include the part where my dad was the Arrow?”

The kitchen is silent except for Joey’s harsh breaths. She can feel the angry tears coming, and she _hates_ the loss of control, the sign of weakness, the proof that no matter how hard she tries to convince them, to convince _herself_ that she’s okay -- she’s _not_. She spent like a whole year of her life crying already, but at times like this it feels like she can never cry enough tears for what she’s lost. 

Joey pushes away from the island, brushes past Aunt Lyla, and escapes to her room. There’s a picture on her bookshelf, one that she can only look at every once in a while. It’s Joey and her parents, not long before they died. She’s sitting on her mom’s lap, while her mom’s sitting on her dad’s lap; all that’s visible of her dad is his grinning face over her mom’s shoulder, and her mom is captured mid-laugh. Joey has her face turned up, beaming up at her mom, her father’s strong arms wrapped around the both of them.

They look like a happy family. They _were_ a happy family, and she wants that, even though she’ll never have it again.

Joey grabs the picture, digs her mother’s raggedly old stuffed panda from the box in the closet, and curls up on her bed. And cries.

Aunt Lyla knocks first, but Joey asks to be left alone in a wobbly, tearful voice. Aunt Lyla sighs and says, “Joey, we’re all right here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Joey makes some sort of noise that is not really anything, but soon enough, she can hear footsteps moving away. Not long after Uncle Dig gives a sharp rap of knuckles and says, “I love you, Josephine, and I promise you, I’m trying my best.”

This time, Joey manages a soft little, “I know,” and Uncle Dig leaves her be after promising he has a hug waiting for her.

Joey doesn’t move until Sara knocks; then she unlocks the door and lets her almost-sister/best friend in. But not before wiping her face and trying to get herself under control. Because Sara is two years older and impressively self-possessed, and Joey tries, but never feels as put together as her friend.

When Sara steps into the room, her warm brown eyes shimmer with sympathetic tears. She has always, since Joey can remember, been such a kind, encouraging presence, even when a hurt, tearful eleven year old randomly moved into her house. Now, like always, Sara doesn’t ask what happened, or offer any hollow words of comfort. She just reaches for Joey. “C’mere, girl.”

Joey collapses into her friend, and then she’s crying like she hasn’t in four years. Raw, painful sobs, her chest heaving. Sara urges her carefully toward the bed, eases them both down. She rubs Joey’s back, murmuring things like, “I know,” and “I’m so sorry, Joey,” and “I miss them, too.”

They stay like that, until Joey cries herself out, until she’s got a pounding headache and the leaden weight of sleep in her veins. Sara moves, easing out of the bed, leaning back to touch Joey’s shoulder when she whimpers in protest. “I’ll be right back,” Sara promises softly, and she is -- in purple fuzzy socks, blue and white pajamas, and a bright pink silk wrap on her head. Sara offers Joey a glass of water and three Advils. “For the headache.”

Joey half-sits, tugging her bra off, swallowing the pills, changing her jeans for yoga pants, and then Sara urges her under the covers before joining. They lie facing each other, Joey’s eyes closed with exhaustion, and it’s like a hundred nights when she was eleven and Sara thirteen. Joey knows she wouldn’t have made it through that awful year without Sara.

“You need to sleep,” Sara murmurs. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

With a sniffle, Joey reaches out and squeezes Sara’s hand before curling back up, shoving her hands underneath her pillow. “Thank you,” she whispers.

& & &

Nearly a week passes.

A week of cryptic looks between Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla, a week of them trying to start conversations with Joey about _anything else_ while Joey politely refuses to engage. She’s not mad, she’s _scared_ , but she doesn’t want them to see that. She doesn’t want anyone to see the grief that is suddenly as sharp and pervasive as it was just after her parents died.

She should be stronger than this.

So while Joey’s grateful for Sara’s compassion, she shuts down any attempts by her adoptive sister to ask about her parents, about the deep well of sadness and loneliness that doesn’t seem to want to stay locked away in its box anymore.

Joey tells herself to stop looking at pictures obsessively, stop thinking about her mom and dad, because thinking about her parents still aches and burns. She _remembers_ her parents -- of course she does -- but year by year, the details fade, leaving a gnawing ache, an unfillable hole where her parents should be.

At eleven, when she mourned them with the openness of a child, she could remember _everything_ \-- her mother’s laugh and warm hugs and bright smiles; the way she would ask and beg and plead with Joey to let her put complicated braids to Joey’s hair, but would grin when Joey always wanted a simple ponytail instead. Joey had always imitated her mother, always wanted to be as smart and pretty and put together as she was -- so much so that she’d begged her father for glasses for her fourth birthday.

Joey remembered how accommodating her father was every time she treated him like a grumbly, stubbly human jungle gym; she remembered how safe and protected she felt when he wrapped his giant arms around her. She remembered him reading stories to her, doing voices, his face animated, and she’d alway wanted to be like him, brave and confident.

And she remembered just... _her parents_ and the way they were together -- small touches and affectionate smiles and the way they were drawn to each other, no matter who else was around.

Five years later, Joey can remember her parents, but not as well. And she’s old enough to understand that this? The _forgetting_? In some ways it’s even worse than how much it hurts to think about them. Every time she tries to recall the way her dad’s eyes crinkled when he smiled at her, or the silly face her mom would make when she caught a whiff of the nail polish remover on girls’ nights, or the way her parents were so warm and sure and solid and _there_ , back then; the way that Joey was rock solid certain that she was _loved_...

Every time Joey realizes that so much of what she has left of her parents has faded with time, her insides snarl and constrict and ache. 

The only time she can recall them with all of their vividness is in her dreams. She both loves and hates the dreams. Because at least when she’s dreaming, her parents hug her and she can _feel_ it. They speak to her in those beloved voices, voices that soothed her to sleep when she was little and taught her how to be a person, voices that she can’t usually remember anymore. Their eyes sparkle with familiarity and love and everything she misses in the world.

But then the dreams shift, and she sees awful things. She didn’t see the explosion that killed them and so many others at the Star City Homeless Coalition’s foundation. There’s footage of it, of course -- incidental grainy black and white footage from surveillance cameras, plus some full-color HD footage of the aftermath. She knows this, though she’s never once been tempted to watch it. She’s never seen what actually happened, but her mind serves up horrible images anyway -- heat, burning, screams, pain. She suffers through it until she wakes, sweaty and panicked, in her room. But she’ll take the horrible parts of the dreams if it means those moments before, when her parents are as alive to her as they’ve been in nearly five years.

But once she wakes from the dreams, she can never fall back asleep. And this week, they’re back with a vengeance, haunting her each night. Joey’s using all the makeup tips Sara’s taught her, unconsciously echoing the favored color palette of her mom, right down to the bright pink lips. She thinks the dark circles under her eyes are mostly covered, but that doesn’t matter when she’s falling asleep in art class.

When Ms. Fratello taps her on the shoulder to wake her, she jerks upright, not yet realizing there’s an impressive amount of smudged charcoal on her forehead. 

“Are you okay, Joey?” Ms Fratello asks. She’s one of Joey’s favorite teachers, and not just because drawing is Joey’s refuge. But the idea of talking about this to anyone is too much, and Joey makes something up, some reason for her tiredness. 

She forces a smile for her teachers, for her friends, for her family, and she tries to keep moving. Even when Aunt Thea says she’s as smart as her mom and as observant as her dad. Or when Aunt Lyla makes some comment about Joey’s ease with languages being hereditary. Or when Uncle Dig gives her a too-tight hug, tears shimmering in his eyes, because something Joey’s done reminded him of her parents.

She never asks him to explain what triggers it. She never wants to know what parts of her are so recognizably her parents. She packs that away, shoving it down with the rest of her pain, and makes herself smile.

It’s Wednesday night, late, probably well after midnight when Joey jerks awake, the acrid scent of smoke in her nose and tears on her cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to live in the pre-nightmare part of her dream for just a few moments longer. Her harsh breaths are loud in her bedroom, drowning out anything else as she fights to bring herself under control.

It’s only then that she notices the door. She never leaves her bedroom door open when she sleeps, but it’s cracked, the dull glow of light from the living room spilling into the room. Like someone checked on her, which Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig stopped doing years ago. 

Joey goes still, holding her breath, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears, suddenly sure that they’d figured out about the nightmares. She listens for footsteps, for her adoptive parents. And she-- she hears--

“No,” she whispers, eyes wide, gaze unfocused.

It can’t be.

But she _knows_ that voice. She may have trouble recalling it on her own, but there’s no way she would ever _not_ recognize it if she heard it again.

On shaky legs, Joey pushes herself out of bed. She’s in a grungy old t-shirt that she thinks might’ve been her dad’s, and pajama pants with cat faces all over them. Her hair is always a fright when she wakes up, all stubborn and standing upright, and her eyes are probably red and watery.

Joey doesn’t give a shit about any of that. She stumbles towards the door, so terrified that she’s wrong. So scared that she’s imagining things, that the dream is just fading more slowly than usual. So frightened that _this_ is just a new twist on the familiar dream -- that this can’t possibly be real.

There are lights on in the living room, blazing lights, and voices talking. Familiar voices. Speaking loudly, urgently. Uncle Dig. Aunt Thea. What might... is that Uncle Barry? Aunt Lyla.

Joey steadies herself with a hand on the wall, moving closer. 

They don’t notice her at first, and Joey jerks to a halt in the relative dimness of the hallway, taking in the scene with wide eyes. They’re standing in a loose circle, most of them looking at something large on the table -- a map, maybe. Or blueprints. She was right, it is Uncle Barry. And another guy she vaguely remembers from her parents’ funeral is standing beside Aunt Thea. Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig. And--

And--

A tiny blonde who Joey can only see in profile. 

She’s standing awkwardly, like she’s hurt, or sore, and that’s when Joey notices the makeshift sling on her arm. That’s when she sees the blood staining one leg of her mother’s jeans.

_Her mother_.

There’s some silver in her hair now, and it’s otherwise a few shades darker than Joey remembers, but it’s pulled into a ponytail that’s so familiar it make Joey’s chest ache. 

Her mother is here. Standing fifteen feet away.

Her mother is _alive_.

“Mom?” There’s no strength behind it; it’s barely audible, but every person in the living room stills immediately.

And then her mother whirls around, nearly toppling over sideways with the movement. The others reach for her, steady her, but she’s moving, limping, her good arm reaching for Joey. Tears stream down her face, but she’s smiling, and Joey knows she should move, but she can’t. 

She can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t blink.

If she blinks, her mom might disappear, dissolve into nothingness. Joey might wake up, gasping, in her bed.

Because this must be a dream. This can’t be real.

But then her mother is there, one strong arm wrapped around her, her injured arm pressed into Joey’s ribs. Slowly, Joey lifts her arms, encircling her mother. Her mom, who feels so much smaller, so much more _human_ now that Joey’s her height -- maybe even taller. Her mom, who smells like smoke and cordite and blood, instead of lemon-y body wash. 

_Her mom_.

“Mom?” Joey repeats, her voice all shaky and tearful.

“Yes, baby, it’s me.” Her mother’s arm tightens even as she groans in pain, But Mom doesn’t let go. “I’ve missed you so much. Every single day. They--” Her voice chokes to a stop.

Joey turns her face into Mom’s neck, crying now in earnest. “Mom, what--?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” Mom says, pulling back just enough to meet Joey’s eyes. “I swear, your father and I have been trying like hell to get back to you every second since they took us.”

Joey blinks. “They?”

Mom shakes her head, glancing quickly at Aunt Dig and Uncle Lyla. “Later, I promise. But Josephine?”

Joey is still half-convinced this is a dream, but she hangs on her mother’s every word. “What?”

“We need to go get your father back,” Mom says, and Joey remembers that steely determination, the fierce love in her eyes. Mom takes another half-step back, her hand reaching for Joey’s as she turns back to the others. “Are we ready?”

Uncle Dig’s in charge, apparently, because they all look to him. “We should go right now. The less time for them to prepare, the better.”

When her mother moves to go with the others, Joey starts to panic, her grip on her mother’s hand tightening desperately. “No! You can’t-- You can’t go,” she says, sounding more like a child than the young woman she tries so hard to be. “You just got back, you can’t leave me again.”

“Joey,” Mom says, blinking tears from her eyes as she steps closer. “I love you more than you can even imagine. I need you to trust me when I tell you I will be back in a couple of hours.” She lifts their joined hands, pressing three quick kisses to the back of Joey’s hand the way she used to when Joey was small. “I am bringing your father back to you, too,” she vows.

Joey sees it again -- her mother’s steely strength that she’s never forgotten -- and she takes a deep, uneven breath. Then she straightens her spine, running her free hand over her face to wipe away the tear tracks. And she nods. “Okay, Mom.”

There are fine wrinkles around Mom’s bright blue eyes now when she smiles, and Joey has to believe she’ll have the chance to learn every detail of this older, wiser version of her mother. This _living_ version. Then Joey startles. “Wait!” she orders. She flings a hand up, then turns and moves toward her room, tugging her mother along behind her.

“Josephine.” The familiar, exasperated way her mom says her name nearly makes Joey stumble, but she recovers, crossing to her bedside table.

“Hang on,” she pleads, letting go only to paw desperately through abandoned headphones, her old phone, a diary she’d never had much success writing in, and a whole bunch of other junk that isn’t nearly as important as the item she’s searching for. “Yes!” she crows, just barely resisting the urge to give a triumphant little fist pump as she turns back to Mom.

Then, suddenly, Joey is uncertain. Shy. Nervous. But she holds out the old glasses case to her mother.

“Josephine,” Mom whispers, her voice scratchy with tears. “Are those...?”

“The spares from the study,” Joey answers shyly. “I-- I couldn’t throw them out.”

Quickly, Mom extricates her bad arm from the sling, and this time when she hugs Joey, she has the full force of her body. Even though they’re the same height, even though Joey barely knows this version of her mom, even though Mom’s leaving in a minute to do something absolutely dangerous, Joey feels... _comforted_. Truly comforted, for the first time in five years.

“I love you, Mom,” she whispers.

“I love you, baby girl,” Mom answers. Then her arms tighten for a moment before she pulls back. She gives Joey a grin as she slips the old frames from the case, and slide the glasses into place. 

The sight steals Joey’s breath. She nods in approval, unable to speak.

“Thank you, Josephine,” Mom says. Then she places her hands on Joey’s shoulders the way Dad always used to, and reiterates, “I’m getting your dad, and we’re both coming home. Okay?”

“Okay.”

With a shaking hand, Mom reaches up and cups Joey’s face. “You’re so beautiful,” she says, tears standing in her eyes, but she blinks them back. Then she steps back. And grins. “Just this once, I think it’s okay if you want to wait up for me and your dad.”

Joey smiles even as she rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks, Mom.” Then her smile fades some, and she adds, “Please be careful.”

“I promise.”

**End Part One**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There'll be one more chapter after this one, because I am, as ever, a wordy bitch. ;)

After her mother leaves with the others -- _her mother_ \-- Joey sinks down onto the couch, her mind blank of everything but the sight of _her mother_. The feel of her mother’s embrace, after so many years.

It’s not until Sara finds her there that Joey realizes she’s been crying, and that she has no idea how long it’s been since her mother was here. No idea how long ago her mom left again, to rescue her father.

Because her parents are alive.

Everything still seems vibrantly, painfully real but also like the worst kind of dream -- the shiny, unbelievable kind where she wakes up and realizes that, no, her parents are still dead; she’s still an orphan. There’s a heavy pressure in her chest, a strange tension throughout her body, making her shake even just sitting still, a heavy purple blanket pulled across her lap.

She can’t stop trembling.

Sara settles beside Joey, pressing a small drawing pad and some pencils into Joey’s hands. “Thought you could use these,” Sara comments. Off of Joey’s puzzled look, she adds, “Mom woke me before they left.”

“My parents are alive,” Joey blurts, her voice shaking. She stares at Sara. “My--” The words stumble to halt in her chest, and she is suddenly _terrified_. Because whatever’s happened, whoever’s had her parents for _five years_ \-- they’re not just going to let her father go. And Joey may not have figured it all when she was a kid, but she’s _always_ known her father is the strongest person she’s ever met -- and if an organization was strong enough to keep her father captive... Well, Joey is suddenly terrified that this _isn’t_ over -- her mom and her aunts and uncles didn’t just go to _pick up her Dad_ somewhere -- this is incredibly dangerous.

The realization is paralyzing -- her body goes rigid, and she can’t catch her breath. Wildly, she remembers trying to do a cartwheel on a picnic bench when she was seven -- it tipped over, and she’d fallen flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. That panicky inability to make her lungs work, to _breathe_ \--

“Joey!” Sara says, her tone sharp. When Joey looks up, her adoptive sister is sitting on the coffee table directly in front of her; Sara’s hands are on Joey’s shoulders. “Breathe,” she orders. “Slowly. Watch,” she orders, pressing Joey’s shaking hand flat against her sternum. “With me, okay, Joey?”

Joey follows Sara’s lead, slowly bringing her breathing back under control, even as her heartbeat continues to pound in her ears. “Sorry,” she whispers, but Sara waves away the apology, covering Joey’s hands with her own. 

“What if-- What if they...?” But Joey can’t make herself say it out loud. 

Sara has always been empathetic and incredibly perceptive; Joey can see the moment her unspoken fear registers with her friend. Sara leans closer, her face calm and determined. “They’re coming back,” she says confidently. “My parents will make sure of it. Barry, Aunt Thea -- you think they’ll accept anything less than your mom and dad back home?”

Something in Sara’s voice catches Joey’s attention, and she tilts her head, examining her best friend’s face. And she thinks about Uncle Dig’s business trips. And Aunt Thea’s oddly timed vacations. “Have--” Joey clears her throat, tries again. “Have they been looking this whole time?”

Sara is every inch her mother’s daughter when she looks straight at Joey and nods. “They never gave up. They never believed your parents were in the building when it exploded.”

Joey knows she’s still in shock, but her fear shifts to anger so quickly she can’t quite control it when she snaps, “And no one thought it made sense to _tell me_ that my parents aren’t dead?”

“What if they were wrong?” Sara answers immediately, her tone even. Unruffled. “Would it have been fair to tell you your parents were alive when they _weren’t_?”

It pierces Joey’s anger, and she slumps back against the couch. “I-- I don’t understand what’s going on, Sara. It’s-- There’s a lot.” She gestures vaguely at her forehead. “Lot going on in here.”

“They’ll explain, Joey. You know they will,” Sara says. Then she moves from the coffee table to plop down beside Joey on the couch, bumping Joey’s shoulder with her own. “Draw me something.”

It’s a request Sara has made of her hundreds of times. From boring still life drawings of the Diggles’ kitchen, to a portrait of Sara’s cat, Snuffles, the drawings Joey’s made for Sara over the years chart her progression as an artist. Because drawing has been Joey’s escape, her solace, her sanity. She paints, too, and she’s an expert at more than one drawing program on her notebook. But tonight, the simplicity of pencil and paper is exactly what she needs. 

She murmurs her thanks -- Sara has always encouraged her to express all the things she can’t say with her art. Usually, Joey draws desolation -- abandoned buildings, spare landscapes, foreboding alleyways. Capturing the darkness with the sides of the pencil tip, shading and shading and shading until it’s dark enough; heavy lines, and very little negative space left untouched. Cityscapes, or trees lit by the barest moonlight. Barren, stark images. 

What she almost never draws is people.

But tonight -- tonight, the heavy paper is a balm to her, the pencil a connection between her hope and her fears, a conduit that springs to life. Tonight, her hands move without her really thinking about it. Her best drawings have always been like this -- like she’s just recognizing lines and curves and shapes where they’ve always been, where they belong. She bends closer to the paper, her focus narrowing down to the pencil strokes, to the shading, to the negative spaces.

Some time later, Sara whispers, “Wow” from beside her, and Joey blinks back to the living room, to the apartment, to the _world_.

She straightens a bit, looking down, and she’s drawn her parents.

Joey inhales a little unsteadily. She’s-- she’s _never_ drawn them. Not since stick figures and crayons. Not like this.

 _This_ is... it’s Mom and Dad, from before. Maybe before Joey at all. They’re rendered lovingly, carefully -- her mother’s ponytail and glasses, the stubble on her father’s cheeks, his arm arm slung across her shoulders, their hands tangled together over her stomach. Joey thinks it might be something from a picture she’d seen once, a moment in time that managed to capture their vibrancy. They look _happy_. 

They look _real_.

Joey drops the sketchbook onto her lap. “Do you think--?”

There’s a sudden burst of air in the living room. Startled, Joey yelps and bolts upright, clasping the notebook protectively against her chest, shielding the image she’s just created of her parents from--

“Uncle Barry?” Joey manages, as she gapes at a tall, slender man in a familiar maroon suit. It takes Joey a moment to look past the lightning logo on his chest and meet his gaze. “You’re-- You’re--”

“The Flash,” Sara offer. “Yes. He is.”

Joey blinks up at her uncle, who’s grinning that affable grin of his. “Is...” she starts, then shakes her head. “Is Aunt Iris Supergirl?”

Uncle Barry actually guffaws at that. “No, she’s-- She’s exactly who you think she is.” Then he shrugs in that way that has always somehow reminded Joey of her mom; sometimes Barry’s manner echoes her mother’s. “I’m exactly who you think I am, too,” he explains. “Just... sometimes I fight crime.” 

“And run really fast,” Joey adds, her voice faint.

“Yeah.” His amusement fades, and he glances at the door. “But we can talk about the mask-related stuff later. Would you like to see your dad?”

No one, including Joey, expects the loud sob she can’t quite swallow down. She curls in on herself, hands to her face, trying desperately to rein her emotions in. It’s just -- it’s a _lot_ for one night. 

Sara’s arms come around her, tipping her into her friend’s frame. “Sssh,” Sara soothes. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s all _good_.”

Joey nods, her throat is too tight for words. She takes a big, quavering breath, then another.

Uncle Barry crouches in front of her, one hand on her knee. “Joey, I’m gonna take you to your parents as soon as you’re ready, okay?”

For some reason, Joey finally thinks to question why her parents aren’t _here_. Dread gathers in the pit of her stomach. “Where are they?”

Uncle Barry’s poker face is _terrible_. “Coast City hospital,” he says, his tone somber. “When HI-- Uh... when _they_ realized your mom was gone, they-- Well, he’s-- He’s got some broken bones, a little bruising.”

Joey clenches her jaw, refusing to cry. “Is he... Will he...?”

“He’s in and out of consciousness,” Uncle Barry says, and that’s not at all reassuring. “But, Joey, every time he wakes up, he asks for you. He won’t let them sedate him until he sees you.”

It’s too much for Joey to process, really. Her fingers are curled too tightly around the edges of her notebook, the sweat from her palms smudging the graphite. 

Sara rubs her back. “Go see your dad.”

Joey nods, lifting her chin. She calls on every inch of Smoak determination she learned from her mother and Gigi. “Okay,” she says, and her voice is almost steady. She pushes herself up from the couch, handing her notepad off to Sara. Then she frowns down at her PJs. “Wait. Give me two minutes to change.”

& & &

When the chaos and wind and noise and _speed_ whirls to a stop, Joey realizes she’s got her eyes squeezed shut and a death grip on Uncle Barry’s shoulders. 

“Okay?” he asks, not moving until she nods against his chest. Then he gently places her on her feet, holding her upper arms until she finds her balance.

“That’s...” she says, opening her eyes and taking in the nearly empty street outside Coast City General. “I don’t like that,” she decides. She’s queasy and still a bit dizzy and everything is kind of muffled, almost like she’s got water in her ear. 

“Give it a minute,” Uncle Barry says. “The unsteadiness should go away.”

But Joey doesn’t have a minute to spare, because-- “My parents? Where are th--?”

“Josephine.” She whirls around, and Uncle Dig is there, gathering her in his big arms for a quick hug. It settles her, finally, from the unsteadying effects of Uncle Barry’s superspeed. “I’ll bring you to them.” 

“Thanks, Uncle Barry!” she calls over her shoulder, half-running to keep pace with Uncle Dig’s long strides. He leads her through the pneumatic doors towards the emergency room, but ushers her down the hallway leading away from the bustling department, and into a big, creaky elevator, instead. “Where are we going?”

“Operating room,” he answers, reaching for her when she steps back and bumps into the metal side wall of the elevator. First superspeedy travel, and now blood and scalpels and _her dad bleeding_? She’s pretty sure she’s gonna throw up. “Hey, hey, Josephine,” Uncle Dig says, just the way he used to when she was eleven and having nightmares about her parents. “It’s okay. The doctors need to do a little bit of work on him. He just wants to see you first.”

And Joey finally understands why Barry ran her here -- Dad is putting his health at risk just to see her. He’s injured, but he’s refusing treatment, and it makes her feel guilty and angry, but also relieved in a way that makes her feel even guiltier. Because he’s been through hell and back, just like her mother, but _this_ stubbornness? This privileging Joey over everything else, even his own health? That’s the father she remembers. 

That’s the father she’s mourned for five years; the father she’s _missed_ for five years. 

So, yeah, she’s incredibly squeamish, and even the vaguely _disinfectant-y_ scent of the hospital is enough to set her nerves on edge. But she will straighten her spine and go see her dad in a freaking operating room. Because if he needs to see her with anywhere near the ferocity with which she needs to see him, she can fully understand him refusing surgery.

“Okay,” she says. Then she clears her throat and tries again. “Okay.”

The elevator chimes its arrival, and she follows Uncle Dig with only the slightest hesitation as he turns left and moves quickly down the hallway that is indistinguishable from the one downstairs.

When they round the corner, everyone’s there in the small, sterile, overly blue waiting area. Joey takes them in quickly -- Aunt Lyla gives her a steady smile, Aunt Thea is crying and laughing at the same time, and holding hands with that familiar guy in a dark red leather jacket. He’s got his arm in a sling, and when Joey pauses to look a bit closer, nearly everyone in the room has visible wounds -- scrapes, bruises, bandages. 

“Is everyone okay?” she asks. Because it looks like getting her father out required a _lot_ of fighting, and they may all be brave and strong, but only Barry is (apparently) a metahuman. 

Uncle Dig wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her towards the double doors. “We’re all in one piece,” he says. “Including your parents.”

It’s not an answer at all, but then he pulls her through the doors, and she winces against the light, and _her mom_ turns, reaching her good arm out. “Josephine,” she says, smiling through tears. Mom has fresh bruises along her cheekbone, and she’s leaning heavily on the operating table, just beside--

Joey stops short, her chest tight. 

It’s bright in the operating room, even with the dull grey tiles along the walls. There’s an overhead light illuminating the figure on the table just past Mom. Joey’s gaze pauses on her mother’s teary smile, then drops to her arm, following it to the table, where her small hand is clasped around a larger hand. A scraped and bruised hand.

Joey’s _father’s_ hand.

“Daddy?” she asks, stumbling forward, her vision all blurry and strange as Mom wraps an arm around her and pulls her to the edge of the gurney. Joey blinks rapidly, seeing the sickly grey pallor of his skin, the bruising along his jaw, scratches and scrapes down his arm. 

But then she meets his gaze, and it’s _her Dad’s_ bright blue eyes looking back at her. That small, dark ball of grief and anger and loneliness in her chest finally, finally lessens, because -- it’s _her Dad_. 

She doesn’t see the split lip anymore, or the dried blood near his hairline; she barely notices the grey in his unkempt hair. Because her Dad is smiling up at her, that proud, loving smile she hasn’t seen in years. 

“Joey,” Dad says, his voice scraped and raw. “Are you okay?”

The white blanket is pulled up to his collarbones, but Joey can see new scars along his neck and shoulders. “Are _you_ okay, Daddy?” she asks, her voice tremulous. But he’s clearly not. In fact, Joey’s starting to suspect that her mother’s limp is not an acute injury so much as a permanent disability, something that was done to her while she was held captive. And Joey’s known since she was little that bad things had happened to her father a long time ago, but he has clearly been tortured again.

She clamps her free hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs. She was feeling sorry for herself the last five years, even though Aunt Lyla and Uncle Dig and Sara gave her a loving home, and meanwhile her parents were being _tortured_. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, and Mom’s good arm tightens around her waist, lending Joey some of that iron strength the way she always has.

Dad’s jaw tightens and he reaches for Joey, stark white bandages wrapped around his wrist and forearm. Joey doesn’t know where to touch him, she doesn’t know where he’s hurt, so she leans over and kisses his bruised, stubbly cheek as his palm lands heavy on her shoulder. 

“Everything’s going to be okay, Joey,” Dad says, his fingers squeezing weakly. “Shhh, it’s okay.”

It’s only then that she realizes she’s crying -- that she’s gotten tears on her poor, injured father. “I missed you,” she whispers, pressing another kiss to his cheek before straightening up and taking his hand in hers. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Uncle Dig said you need surgery?”

“Wanted to wait for you,” he tells her, still smiling at her, though Joey can tell his breathing is speeding up. He can’t quite hide the wince when he shifts on the table. “Need you to keep your mom company, okay?”

Mom’s arm tightens around Joey’s waist, and she leans forward. “Oliver, we’ll be right here when you wake up. You’re safe. _We’re_ safe, okay?”

Dad’s eyelids flutter shut for a long moment, and it’s only then that Joey notices a kind-faced man in purple scrubs slowly injecting something into her father’s IV. The nurse glances up and gives Joey and her mother a small smile and a nod. “It’s time.”

“Okay,” Mom says, then she leans over and kisses Dad’s forehead. 

“I love you, Dad,” Joey tells him, stepping back with her mother, but holding his hand as long as she can. 

“Love you,” he whispers, turning his head to watch them go, jaw clenched against what Joey realizes must be pain. He looks right at Joey, then at Mom and repeats himself, “Love you.”

When they reach the door, his eyes drift shut and his body relaxes into the table. The nurse gives them that same reserved smile and says, “It could be a couple hours, but we’ll bring you updates. He’s in good hands.”

“Thank you,” Mom says, her voice strong and confident, even as she momentarily loses her balance.

“Mom?” Joey asks, her heart suddenly pounding with fear. What if her mother is hurt, too? What if--?

“I’m okay,” Mom reassures her, pulling Joey a little closer as they head back towards the waiting area. “And your dad is gonna be okay, too” she whispers. 

Joey swipes a hand across her face, trying to erase the evidence of her tears, and leans into Mom. “Are you sure? Mom, I...” She can’t find the words for... really anything. After _five years_ as an orphan, her parents are back, and she just--

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Mom shushes, stopping their progress to pull Joey in for a hug. But whatever’s wrong with Mom’s leg affects her balance, so they end up listing to the left and leaning against the wall as they hold onto each other and cry.

It’s anger and grief for what they’ve lost, but also relief and hope for a future, now that they’re all in one place again. Joey’s _family_ is together again.

“C’mon,” Uncle Diggle says softly, ushering them to a small bench a few yards down the hallway. “Why don’t you two take a minute,” he suggests, and they collapse there together, waiting for word on Dad and refusing to let each other go.

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

The wait is excruciating.

Joey’s parents’ extended friends and family have effectively taken over one half of this waiting room. The bruised and bandaged group look slightly out of place among the smaller collections of people also waiting for their loved ones -- but probably none of the others came here straight from sort of violent confrontation to free two people from captivity. 

_Captivity_. The word is grotesque in this context. Normally Joey thinks of endangered animals like tigers and rhinoceroses when she hears the word. It shouldn’t ever be applied to _people_.

Joey’s grip on her mother’s hand tightens, and she looks over at her yet again. Some small and scared part of her still doubts that this is really _real_ , but all the reunions she’s ever let herself imagine have been sunlit, joy-drenched affairs, not this strained _waiting_.

She never, ever imagined this older, scarred version of her mother. 

It’s been two hours since her father went into surgery, and Joey knows none of them have any real idea how long it’ll be until they hear something. So they’re all just... sitting in the aptly named waiting room and _waiting_. It’s the worst kind of torture.

As soon as that thought crosses her mind, Joey flushes and dips her chin, her gaze dropping to the thin, silvery scars on the back of her mother’s hand. Scars from _actual_ torture. Her parents are alive, but they’ve been held captive and tortured. For _years_.

Joey has about a thousand questions. She wants to know every single detail of what’s happened to her parents, of where they’ve been. But Dad’s in surgery, and nothing is for sure yet, so Joey figures she should be respectful and wait.

Also, even after five years of separation, she knows her mother well enough to understand Mom is not ready to answer question. Her mouth is tight, her lips pressed together firmly, and her gaze flicks around the room like she’s searching for someone to tell her how her husband is. Joey can read the tension and stress in her mother’s face.

Her mother’s face -- so familiar, but different at the same time.

Joey finds herself staring, because even lined and bruised and pale, her mother is beautiful. Now that she has the time to study Mom, to really examine the differences she sees from the woman who’s been frozen forever the same in her memories the last several years, Joey can see the indications of just how brutally her parents were treated. Mom’s fingernails have always been short, but tonight her nails are jagged and dirty. Like maybe she’d clawed her way out of some kind of hell.

Joey’s gaze shifts to the marks around her mother’s wrists. _Ligature marks_ , her mind supplies, and Joey wishes suddenly she hadn’t watched quite so many reruns of _Law & Order: SVU_ on TV Classics. Her stomach churns as her mind runs away with her, supplying any number of horrifying things that could’ve been done to her parents while they were prisoners. 

When she turns to look at Mom’s face, her attention is caught by larger scars on her mother’s neck -- rough patches of skin. Joey doesn’t weigh her actions, just reaches up with her free hand to run a finger carefully along the marks. 

Mom flinches.

Joey freezes, horrified that she’s made her mother uncomfortable. “Are you okay?” she asks. She can feel the attention from the rest of their friends and family in the room, even as they all carefully look at anything else. 

But because Mom has always been the bravest, she turns a small but sincere smile to Joey. “I’m okay,” Mom promises, her voice shaking with the attempt at normality.

“Mooooom,” Joey sing-songs in that annoyed tone she hasn’t used in years, and suddenly there are tears streaming down her mother’s cheeks. Joey’s stomach churns with regret and not a little bit of panic. She’s made her mother cry. “Mom?”

Mom’s only answer is to pull Joey into a fierce hug. “Josephine,” she murmurs. “You can’t imagine how much I missed you. I love you so much, baby girl.” Then she laughs a little and pulls back, reaching up to smooth Joey’s hair back from her face. “Even if you’re not a baby anymore.”

Uncle Dig approaches slowly, laying a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Felicity,” he says, and suddenly Joey remembers how much Uncle Dig and _especially_ Dad loved to say her mother’s name; she hadn’t even realized how much she’d missed the sound of it in the past few years. Uncle Dig tilts his head just a bit and says, “There’s a coffee shop downstairs in the lobby.”

The sound Mom makes in reaction to the mention of coffee is almost embarrassing. “Ohhhh,” she says, beaming up at him. “John, would you--?”

“You got it,” he interrupts, moving closer, the expression on his face one that Joey remembers from that first year after her parents’ disappearance -- he’s just barely holding it together. He swallows a couple times, then gives Mom a watery smile. “The usual, Felicity?”

Mom lurches to her feet and tips right into Uncle Dig’s arms. She sniffles, pressing her face into his big chest, and his eyes fall closed as he rocks her back and forth a little. Joey watches with a little bit of awe -- seeing the depth of their friendship is something of a revelation. She’d been too young before their disappearance to really understand.

No wonder Uncle Dig never stopped looking for them.

When Uncle Dig finally lets her go, Mom reaches up to cup his cheek with one shaking hand. “I don’t think there’s anything I could ever do to thank you for taking care of my baby girl,” she chokes out. Then she tilts a little to see Aunt Lyla around Uncle Dig’s shoulder. “You kept her safe,” Mom adds with a helpless shrug. “I can never repay--”

“Hey, none of that,” Uncle Dig interrupts. “Joey’s family. _You’re_ family, you and Oliver. No thanks are ever needed, okay, Felicity?”

Mom half-collapses back into the seat beside Joey, and promptly slings her good arm around Joey. 

Joey leans into her mother and closes her eyes. They sit like that in silence for a while, and Joey lets her mind drift, imagining family dinners that feel _complete_ , with Uncle Dig, Aunt Lyla, Sara, Jonah, Aunt Thea, Gigi, and, improbably, _Mom and Dad_. She’s always hated that she can’t remember the last family dinner before they died -- was it a holiday dinner? Or maybe Dad’s birthday? 

Now maybe it doesn’t matter so much. Now they have time for more family dinners. Now as soon as Dad is out of surgery and settled in a room, they can all pile in there together. 

She imagines her father holding court from his hospital bed, battered and bruised but charming. She imagines her mother on one side of his bed, and herself on the other. She imagines her family alive and whole and for the first time in five years, the thought isn’t lined with a heavy layer of grief and regret, weighed down by impossibility.

When Joey blinks her eyes open, she realizes she’d dozed off. Her aunts and uncles are talking quietly on the other side of the waiting room, giving her and Mom some privacy.

The arm slung around Joey’s shoulder tightens momentarily, then releases her. Joey sits up, blinking, and turns her gaze to her mother, who smiles back, even as she groans and shifts in her seat.

“Mom, are you okay?” Joey asks, suddenly wide awake and a little panicky. Is her mother hurt? Should she call a doctor?

“I’m okay, Josephine,” Mom says in the warm, soothing tone Joey remembers from a hundred times she was sick as a kid. “Just some aches and pains.”

Joey knows her mother is minimizing. She saw her mother fight for balance on a bad leg. She saw the evidence of past pain. So she swallows hard, gathering her courage. “Did they... Did they hurt you?”

Mom holds her gaze for a long moment, and Joey can see her searching for what to say. “Josephine,” Mom begins, “I know it’s been years, and I know you’re not a child, and I know you deserve the truth.” She hesitates, glancing down at her hands. When she meets Joey’s gaze again, her eyes are shiny with tears. “But there are some things I’m not going to be ready to talk about for awhile. I can’t--” She presses her lips together, then inhales deeply. “Yes, they hurt us. In a bunch of different ways.”

Joey feels like she might actually vomit, because she doesn’t know what that means, exactly, but she’s always had a vivid imagination. Mom is pale and trembling as she speaks, but because she’s always been the strongest person Joey’s known, her back is straight and she pushes through her own discomfort.

“I don’t think it’s important for you to have details about that,” Mom continues. “Let us protect you from that, okay?”

“But, Mom,” Joey protests, “I could--” She breaks off, her gaze dropping to the floor for a long moment. Because what can she do, really? She’s a sixteen-year-old with a ridiculous trust fund and some artistic talent -- how can she possibly help two people who’ve been through hell? Still, there’s enough of her parents in her to make her want to try. So she gathers her courage to try again and lifts her chin. “I could… Maybe I could help you and Dad.”

Mom’s eyes slide shut, tears streaking down her cheeks, but just for a moment. Then she sniffles and straightens and fixes her familiar, unwavering gaze on Joey. “You already have,” she says, the words low and steady and sure, and Joey remembers this tone from a hundred nights being soothed back to sleep, from dozens of conversations around the kitchen table about mean kids at school. Mom nods, like she knows exactly what Joey’s thinking about, and continues, “What you need to remember, Josephine, is that _you_ are what got your Dad and I through this.”

And Joey’s crying again. She _hates_ crying, hates how it makes her brain fuzzy and her nose itchy. But she can’t seem to make herself stop. Her attempt to speak comes out as garbled nonsense.

Mom pulls her in, rocking her slightly even as the stupid armrest digs into Joey’s ribs. They may be about the same stature these days, but Mom still has that ineffable _mom_ ness to her, because Joey feels like a kid in her arms. A safe kid. A loved and cherished kid. She tightens her hold on her mother’s torso. 

“Believe me, Josephine, your father and I were determined to make it home to you,” Mom murmurs, holding Joey’s head to her shoulder with one gentled, cupped hand. “You’re the best thing we’ve ever done.”

A doctor appears in the doorway, walking purposefully toward them with an unnervingly blank expression.

Suddenly, Joey’s panicking -- what if her father was more injured than she thought? What if he delayed his surgery too long just to see her? What if he--?

“Mrs. Queen?” the doctor asks. She’s a tiny Indian woman with warm brown eyes and a lovely lilting accent when she speaks. 

Mom pushes upright, grimacing and listing slightly until Joey jerks to her feet and tucks herself under her mother’s good arm, acting as a makeshift crutch. “Yes,” Mom answers. “How is he?”

The doctor nods. “He’s in recovery. I’m Doctor Rajasakerian, we spoke briefly in the emergency room?” Once Mom nods, Dr. Rajasakerian continues, “As we suspected, your husband had several broken ribs, one of which punctured his lung. There were also injuries to his liver that we repaired. While he was under, we set the fracture in his arm, which required steel plates to reinforce the fracture site.”

Mom exhales a shaky breath. “So he’s going to be okay?”

The doctor smiles, finally, and Joey feels like she can breathe again. “We’re quite optimistic. Given the extent of the bruising all over his torso and upper legs, we’re going to keep a close eye on him to make sure there are no other bleeds that will require surgical intervention. If not, he should heal well over time.” Her expression returns to its carefully blank state. “Mrs. Queen, when we studied Oliver’s films, we saw evidence of multiple past fractures, some of which show signs of having healed without medical intervention. That plus the scarring on your husband’s body suggests physical torture.”

Mom lifts her chin. “Yes,” she answers.

Doctor Rajasakerian’s gaze drops briefly to Mom’s wrists, but she simply nods. “I would be happy to provide you both the names of some experienced therapists.”

“Thank you,” Mom interrupts before the doctor can go into anymore detail. She reaches out and shakes the doctor’s hand. “Really, _thank_ you. When can we see him?”

The doctor’s smile is a little sad when she says, “Once he’s settled in a room, the nurse will come get you.”

& & &

Joey follows her mother into the dimly lit hospital room, feeling a strange, nervous tightness in her rib cage. It’s disorienting, seeing her father in a hospital bed. When she was little, her father had seemed indestructible; even after believing he’d been killed, Joey’d continued to imagine him that way. To _remember_ him that way.

Tonight, he’s pale, unconscious, with a lot of scary looking wires and tubes running from his arms up to bags of liquid and -- yikes, even blood. Joey is instantly nauseated by the sight, but makes herself move forward, to his side. His casted arm is bent and positioned across his chest, his good arm lying alongside his body. There’s a small plastic doohickey on his index finger and an IV in the back of his hand, but Joey _has_ to touch him. 

Dropping into the visitor’s chair, Joey carefully, _carefully_ slides her palm beneath his, curling her fingers up to hold his hand. Across the hospital bed, Mom has settled into a small recliner, reaching out to rub his arm above the cast, her fingers adding some pressure, massaging the muscle.

They settle in for more waiting, but it’s nearly six in the morning and it’s been a long night -- _good_ , but long. Joey fights the heaviness of sleep in her limb for as long as she can. Eventually, she leans forward, her lower body curled in the not-all-that-comfortable chair and her head resting on the mattress beside Dad’s elbow. 

When Joey drifts back to consciousness, her cheek smooshed against scratchy cotton, she hears familiar voices speaking lowly. Dad is saying something about protection, and Mom answers, “Do you honestly think John would bring us here and _not_ surround the place with security, Oliver?”

In the hazy state between sleeping and waking, Joey thinks this might be the last of a good dream fading, so she tries to hold still, tries to stay here in what might be a dream of her parents that _doesn’t_ involve violence and pain.

Then she hears that familiar huff of almost-laughter from Dad, and her memory has _never_ gotten it quite right. Eyes wide, she pushes upright with a little groan -- because sleeping slumped over, half-on and half-off the edge of a hospital bed is _not_ super comfortable -- and stares at those two faces she never thought she’d see again. And then she says, “Is the-- Are there bagels with the guards?” Then she frowns, confused by her own nonsense. Was she dreaming about bagels? “Wait. What?”

Mom beams at her, recognizing her inability to wake up without spewing nonsense as a trait inherited from the Smoak side of the family. 

“She’s your kid, Felicity,” Dad chokes out, and Mom gives a watery laugh. But Dad is overwhelmed, crying, reaching out his unbroken arm for her. “Come here, Joey.”

Joey moves a little stiffly, uncurling herself from the chair and then propping her hip against the hospital bed so she can lean over and give her father an awkward, careful hug. But he gets his good arm around her and tugs her closer, and, yeah, he’s still pretty strong as he crushes her to his chest, incisions and broken, splinted arms be damned. 

“I missed you, Daddy,” she says, one arm slipping under his neck to hug him back, the other carefully patting his shoulder, trying to keep some of her weight off of him. 

She tips her forehead to rest against his shoulder, and he turns his head into her as his big hand moves up, smoothing over her hair, cradling her head to him. “I missed you, baby girl,” he says, then presses a kiss to her hair.

Joey closes her eyes, inhaling the cottony scent of the well-washed johnny, and the sharp hint of antiseptic, and underneath it all, the warmth that’s just _Dad_. “Are you okay?” she whispers.

His hand smooths over her hair, soothing her the way he did when she was girl. “I’m gonna be just fine now that you’re here,” he tells her. She remembers this voice, this solemn way he used to tell her she was the most important thing in his world. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, her face crumpling. “I’m sorry they hurt you and Mom.” The still-familiar weight of her mother’s hand lands on Joey’s back, soothing her with small, comforting circles, and finally, _finally_ Joey has her family back. 

Dad shushes her softly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Everything’s going to be okay, Joey.”

She’s still crying inconsolably -- it’s _relief_ and _happiness_ , but it’s too big for words, somehow -- when she hears the hospital door open and a muted version of Gigi’s normal out-sized reaction to good news.

“Oh, my God!” Gigi whisper-shrieks. “I didn’t-- I didn’t _believe_ Thea, but--”

Joey tries to move, but Dad is still holding her so carefully and so closely that she realizes _he_ needs this as much as she does. So she simply turns her head, lying her cheek against his shoulder, and takes in the sight of her grandmother stunned into silence in the doorway. Gigi’s long blonde hair is a little messier than normal. She’s wearing a relatively tame pair of tight jeans and a sparkly pink top, and she looks ten years younger, all of a sudden. 

Gigi’s wide-eyed gaze skims over all three of them. “Felicity!” Gigi has tears streaming down her face, but a smile on her lips as she holds shaking hands out towards her daughter. 

Joey feels her mother’s hand lift from her back, and watches her mother rounds the foot of the bed to approach Gigi. “ _Mom_ ,” she chokes, collapsing into Gigi’s embrace with a small sob. 

Gigi cradles her daughter the same way she’s been cradling Joey -- all maternal warmth and comfort. She kisses Mom’s hair. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

The two women rock back and forth, and Joey notices again that Mom is still favoring her bad leg. She eases up, grabbing Dad’s hand and settling more comfortably on the bed beside his hip. His attention shifts between his wife and mother-in-law’s reunion, and his daughter, and the awe and relief and happiness on his face makes Joey’s breath catch in her throat.

She squeezes his hand twice the way she did as a kid when she wanted his attention, and Dad’s gaze snaps to her. “Joey?”

Softly, she asks, “Is Mom okay?”

Dad’s expression cycles through a hundred fleeting emotions -- guilt, anger, sadness -- before he nods. “We both got a little banged up,” he answers quietly, in what Joey knows is the understatement of the year. If they were talking about something less traumatic, she would tease him for his stoicism. Instead, she nods, letting him continue in that soft, raspy voice. “But we made it back and that’s the most important part.”

Joey’s grip on his fingers tightens and she presses her lips together to stay the torrent of words. She wants to rage against the people who hurt her family. She wants to demand that they tell her every last thing that happened immediately so that she understands. She wants to help them recover, and be the best daughter she can.

But she’s not a little girl anymore. Joey’s old enough to read the room, old enough to think about what _they_ want -- and as Gigi and Felicity walk back to the bed, arms slung around each other and matching teary smiles on their faces, Joey knows that this quiet, this calm reconnection is what her parents need most of all.

& & &

Inevitably, the rest of the family ends up in Dad’s room after breakfast.

There aren’t enough chairs, but they make do -- Aunt Thea and Roy (who is _finally_ introduced to Joey) sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall and snuggled up very close to each other. Joey is still in her chair on Dad’s good side, with Mom right next to her and Gigi beside her. Uncle Dig found another chair and a stool, and he and Aunt Lyla are sitting on the other side of Dad’s bed, catching Dad up on the world.

Dad’s color is much better even if he can’t tolerate the bed being propped up at more than a 45 degree angle. Mom shifts uncomfortably every once in a while, but waves off Gigi’s and Joey’s concern, obviously content to be here, surrounded by family.

Joey stays mostly quiet, holding hands with both of her parents, listening to the conversations around her as the topics catch her attention. She learns Roy has been living in Tucson the last couple years, and that he hates the heat. (And she can tell from the looks between Aunt Thea and Roy that there’s a lot of history there, even if no one has ever mentioned Roy before.)

She learns that her parents were held by HIVE -- whatever that is -- on an abandoned oil rig five miles off the coast. Mom blames her unsteadiness on learning how to walk on land again, but Joey doesn’t miss the grim looks exchanged by Dad and Uncle Dig -- she knows it’s more than that. 

She learns the rescue operation had left some of their captors dead (“Good,” Mom comments, her expression unyielding), others escaped (Dad and Uncle Dig made identical irate faces at that), and a few in federal custody (“Headed to the facility on Lian Yu,” Aunt Lyla offers, and her parents laugh, even though Joey doesn’t understand why that’s funny).

She learns that Gigi has written long letters to Mom every time something important happened, because she always believed she would’ve _known_ if her daughter were actually dead. Gigi adds that Quentin will bring that box with him when he comes by later -- and that Gigi used to make Quentin write them, too. “Oh, good,” Mom says with a smirk, turning to Dad. “I’m sure he had many complimentary things to say about you, hon.”

Joey learns that Dad’s bad knee is now basically shot and will have to be replaced. She learns that Mom’s leg injury is from repeated broken bones and inadequate medical care. She learns they both have scars -- physical and emotional -- that they will never want to talk about.

She learns that Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla put most of Mom and Dad’s things into storage five years ago, because they were determined to bring them home. Dad’s voice is gruff and a little choked up when he says, “You kept her safe and loved her. The rest is-- John, you raised my _daughter_ when--” He breaks off, and Uncle Dig leans over and gives him what should’ve been an awkward man-hug, but actually leaves Mom crying and Joey more than a little choked up.

She learns that, yes, her aunts and uncles are all the kind of people who would put their lives on the line for their loved ones without hesitation. She learns that she was right -- her father _was_ the Green Arrow. Thea is Speedy, and Roy was the Red Arrow once upon a time, and Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla and Mom -- _all_ of them are heroes. Joey’s whole family.

Joey learns that, despite becoming a (presumed) orphan at 11, she has a large and amazing family. 

Though to be fair, she knew that even before she knew most of them were actual heroes in their spare time.

Eventually, Dad’s blinks grow longer, and Joey realizes he’s dozing off. She squeezes Mom’s hand and tilts her head at the hospital bed, trying to figure out how to _nicely_ kick everyone out. But Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla are already standing to go, and Aunt Thea and Roy follow their lead, pushing themselves up from the floor with exaggerated groans. 

Dad rouses just long enough to thank everyone again, his voice shaking a little and his eyes _definitely_ glistening with tears. Joey gives him another kiss on the cheek, then stands as the extended family offer hugs on their way out. 

Gigi is the last to go; she’s hesitating in the doorway when Joey pushes back to her feet. “Gigi, wait.” Gigi holds her arms open, and Joey moves to the door to step into her grandmother’s embrace. When she eases back, she asks, “Do you have a nail file?”

Gigi’s expression brightens. “Of course!” She digs through her large bag and comes up with a small nail kit -- nail file, cuticle trimmer, and orange sticks. Then she pulls a bottle of bright red nail polish out and offers it up with a knowing smile. “Will this work?”

Joey grins and hugs her grandmother in thanks. “Perfect.”

Gigi’s smile is soft and proud when cups Joey’s cheek. “You’re a wonderful daughter, Joey. I’m so proud of you.” Then she straightens her spine and says, more loudly this time, “I’ll have them send a cot in so you can rest, Felicity.”

“Thanks,” Mom says from her spot in the visiting chair pulled right up next to Dad’s bed.

Joey closes the door behind Gigi and returns to Dad’s bedside. He’s trying to stay awake, fighting the narcotics. “Dad,” Joey says, grabbing his good hand. “It’s nap time,” she says with a grin, remembering how he used to embarrass her with stories about how stubborn she was as a toddler. Stories about her refusing to go down for naps, or trying to negotiate her way out of them. Joey smirks and adds, “No arguing!”

Dad huffs a laugh at the strange role reversal, but nods. “Anything for my girls.” His blue eyes are a little unfocused, and he shifts a bit, trying to get more comfortable. Mom strokes his arm in long, soothing motions. “It’s okay, Oliver,” she murmurs. 

Joey leans down and kisses his forehead, then settles into the seat beside her mother. They sit quietly, waiting for Dad’s breathing to even out, for the pained tension in his form to melt away. Finally, he relaxes into sleep, and Joey turns to her mother with a little apprehension and a lot of hope. “Mom?” she asks, holding up the nail kit. Because she can’t do much for her parents at the moment, but she can do this one little thing.

Mom’s eyes are glassy with tears as she nods her assent. 

Despite Joey’s artistic talents, she’s not a great manicurist. For whatever reason, Sara is worlds better at it. But this is important, so Joey takes her time, massaging Mom’s fingers, rubbing lotion into her scarred skin. 

Mom’s breathing is a little unsteady as Joey works, but she manages to say, “Tell me about your life, Josephine. I-- We missed so much.” There’s sorrow in her tone, and maybe some anger, too. But what Joey focuses on is the genuine curiosity, the yearning to know more.

She sniffles, _refusing_ to cry again, and wonders what kind of information is worthy of this moment. Her everyday observations about the mean girls at school, or her inability to grasp symbolism in her American Lit class -- none of it seems important enough to share. Instead, when she opens her mouth, she starts to tell her mother about life Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla and Sara and little (annoying) Jonah as she carefully files Mom’s jagged, uneven nails. 

Mom murmurs encouragingly, and asks the occasional question, but mostly Joey just talks as she evens out Mom’s nails. She recounts the trips to the Queen family cabin up north, the regular visits from Aunt Iris and Uncle Barry, the scary -- in a _they could totally take over the world together_ kind of way -- friendship between Aunt Thea and Gigi. She talks about sleepovers at Gigi and Quentin’s, and shopping trips with Aunt Thea.

It’s nice, thinking about the good times with her family. For so long, Joey felt guilty when she’d enjoy lunch with Aunt Thea, or a family trip, because this _huge_ part of her family was _missing_. But now? Telling Mom about it? Joey lets herself enjoy it. She lets herself be grateful for the amazing people in her life that kept her going when she lost her parents.

“Joey?”

She looks up, meeting Mom’s intense gaze. “Yeah?”

“I’ll never stop being sorry that I wasn’t there,” Mom says quietly. She makes a face and adds, “And more than a little mad that time with you was stolen from me -- from us.” Mom glances at Dad, but he’s still sleeping, his mouth open a little. Mom lowers her voice a little more and says, “But I’m _so_ grateful you had them all looking out for you.”

Joey nods a little. “Me, too,” she agrees, her voice tremulous. Because her mother summed it up perfectly -- their time together _was_ stolen. Five of her sixteen years on this earth lived without her parents, and that will never stop being unfair. What was done to her parents will never stop being awful. But it turns out they have the kind of extended family that will take in orphaned children and break out imprisoned parents, and hold everything together in the meanwhile. Joey gives her mother a grin. “I kind of love our family.”

Mom’s answering smile is like the sun. “I kind of love our family, too,” she answers lightly. 

When Joey uncaps the nail polish, she wrinkles her nose at the strong, acrid scent. Moments later, Dad jerks back to consciousness, eyes wide and slightly panicked. Joey freezes, but Mom is on her feet, leaning over Dad. “Look at me, Oliver. I’m right here. We’re safe. Joey’s safe. She’s giving me a manicure.”

Dad jerks his head to the side, breathing hard as he stares at Joey for a long moment. Then his entire body relaxes, and he exhales. “Nail polish,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to the bottle in her hand. “I haven’t--” He shakes his head a little bit. “Haven’t smelled that in _years_.” And then he smiles, and this time there’s no trace of regret or sadness or pain, he just... _smiles_. “Felicity,” he says, reaching for her hand. 

Mom cups his cheek with her free hand, and her parents stare at each other. Joey remembers this -- remembers the way they could just _look_ at each other and hold entire conversations. It’s comforting to see that hasn’t changed, despite all the rest of it that has.

Mom leans down and kisses Dad quickly. “Joey’s safe,” she says, and it sounds like a mantra, like something they told themselves to hang onto while they were held captive. 

“Joey’s safe.” Dad nods, turning his attention to her, like he needs to see her again to be sure. 

Joey recaps the nail polish and stands, moving closer. “Yeah, I’m-- I’ve been safe. Uncle Dig and Aunt Lyla--”

“Knock, knock!” says a cheerful voice from the door. Dad’s nurse is a tiny Filipino woman wearing maroon scrubs and an endearing grin. “I’ve got a cot for you!” Without further comment, she rolls it in, going around the end of Dad’s bed and unfolding it.

As Joey and Mom move to allow the nurse to push the cot into place, Joey feels a wave of exhaustion hit. It’s nearly 11 a.m., and she’s had at most a couple hours of fitful sleep. When she looks at Mom, she realizes her mother’s even more exhausted. 

“All set?” the nurse asks, and all three of the Queens nod in unison.

“Thank you,” Joey says, and it’s just a cot with a thin mattress, but it kind of looks like heaven at the moment. 

The nurse nods. “I’ll be back to check in, but I’ll try to be quiet if you’re all going to be sleeping.” She hooks a thumb towards the door. “There are bodyguards right outside your door.”

This time, it’s Dad speaking. “ _Thank_ you.”

When they’re alone again, Joey moves towards the chair, but Mom catches her arm and moves them both toward the cot. “Help me move this closer to your dad’s bed.”

The two women move the unnecessary privacy curtain out of the way, and shove the cot over until there’s less than a foot separating the two beds. Dad watches them with watery eyes. “Nap time,” he says, grinning.

Mom sits on the bed, pulling Joey down next to her. “Curl up with me, baby girl,” Mom orders, scooting to the side so Joey can lie beside her. Joey turns on her side, facing Dad, while Mom curls up behind her. They’re on his bad side, so Joey reaches over and pats his arm above the cast, letting her hand fall to the mattress beside his shoulder as sleep starts to pull at her.

Joey remembers a hundred lazy weekend mornings spent like this -- lying in between her parents as they all napped in her parents big, warm bed. It’s not quite the same -- she’s basically grown, her father’s in a hospital bed, and she’s pretty sure she and Mom will wake up sore from sleeping on this cot. But the feeling -- the _peacefulness_ of the three of them together is so familiar it makes Joey’s chest ache. In a _good_ way.

“Night night, Daddy,” she murmurs. 

His answering chuckle is clogged with emotion. “Sleep tight, baby girl.”

Mom’s arm curls around Joey, and Joey tugs her mother’s hand up, pressing three quick kisses to the scarred skin near her wrist, the way Mom used kiss her hand when she was little. “I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, Josephine,” Mom whispers back, tightening her embrace just a bit. “Now rest.”

Joey does.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this strange little journey with me! I rather adore Josephine, and although I don't currently have any plans to write more in this particular 'verse, inspiration may strike.


End file.
